


The Spoils

by mautadite



Category: Original Work
Genre: Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Harems, M/M, Massage, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: Darian cocks a brow. “I didn't agree with a lot of the things that your Emperor allowed. Hence the overthrowing.”“Ah, well.” Victor waves a hand airily. “We won’t let a little thing like that stand between us, will we?”
Relationships: Confused Uptight New Ruler/Old Ruler's Harem Eager to Please
Comments: 26
Kudos: 159
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	The Spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toucanpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toucanpie/gifts).



> My friend, you had great prompts. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Darian opens the door to the baths, yelps, “oh good grief!” and immediately closes it again.

He turns on his heel to glare accusingly at his chief advisor. “You said they would behave!”

Cordelia throws her hands up in surrender, shrugging. “They promised that they would!”

Darian pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh, he _bets_ that they’d promised to behave. For a given definition of behave that included nothing about actual comportment and manners, and everything about posing sultrily and wearing as little clothing as possible. But he only has himself to blame for that latter detail, Darian thinks darkly. He had chosen the time of commencement, but he’d let them choose the field of battle. And seasoned as they are, they had of course, selected their most trusted realm.

One year ago, Darian had begun his campaign to oust Emperor Caius, ancient and inept and despotic, and bring much needed order to the realms just as his father, the old general, would have wanted. One month ago, he had finally succeeded in his goal, exiling the old man to the Hundred Islands, and putting an end to the fighting once and for all. Three weeks ago, he had made a thorough sweep of his new palace, meeting everyone who lived, worked, and had a role here, and in so doing, had met the old emperor’s harem. 

Ever since that day, Darian hasn’t had a moment of peace.

Reluctantly, Darian pushes open the door again. A cloud of steam hits him in the face, and he can hear Cordelia cough. Using one hand, he waves away the mist, takes a step further in, and looks out across the expansive, brightly lit bath at the harem. _His_ harem.

There are five of them. 

Ayodele is splashing about in one of the smaller pools. Naked. He’s a slight, dark young man of about five and twenty, full of curls and dimples and far too much natural charm and feigned innocence. Two nights ago at dinner, he had stuffed the entirety of a large, thick cucumber into his mouth, so far back it had to tickle his throat, and then popped it out with ease, spittle dribbling from the corners of his full lips. “Oh wow,” he had said, beaming and batting his eyelashes at Darian. “Apparently that’s something I can do? How weird!”

Eulji sits on a ledge near Ayodele’s pool, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other trailing in the water. Also naked. He’s a big, barrel of a man approaching his fortieth year, with a large chest and belly covered with dark fur. He keeps his sleek black hair up in a high knot, and has eyes that seem to see everything. On at least three separate occasions, he has pinched Darian on the ass, sending an acute shock of pleasure straight to his cock. And on each occasion, when Darian whipped around to upbraid him, Eulji looked so serious and unassuming that Darian immediately lost all his steam.

Lounging on a bench in a far corner is Ishmael. Probably naked? Darian can’t tell. He’s plucking the strings of a sitar, placed strategically between his long legs. Darian is frankly relieved. Clothing being a matter of whimsy to these men, he’s seen Ishmael’s cock a few times before, and it’s so massive he blushes to think of it. He’s a tall young man, lanky and pale, with long brown hair and grey eyes. The sitar is always practically attached to him, and he’s fond of singing little ballads any time Darian walks into a room, all about his ‘daring exploits’ and ‘uncontested bravery’ and ‘honeyed skin’ and ‘grassy eyes’. Musically and lyrically, they’re quite bad, but even Darian has to admit the man has a lovely singing voice.

There are some steps leading up to a smaller bathroom; Markus sits on them, reading from a small book of what seems to be poetry. Naked. ‘Giant’ is probably the best way to describe him. Standing at well over six feet tall, he has to duck his shining blond head to enter most rooms. He has the build of a warrior, or perhaps a pit fighter: big shoulders, thick muscles, trim waist. After their first meeting, he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in Darian’s well-being; asking him how much water he drinks, heaping seconds onto his plate when he can, offering to lift him over a patch of wet floor when they’d chanced to walk down a hallway together.

(Darian had declined, cheeks ruddy.)

In the centre of the room is the largest pool, and in it is a fit figure doing laps. Victor. Not naked, but he might as well be, with how brief and tight and wet his loincloth is. The leader of this little band, if there can be said to be one. All of the men in his harem are beautiful, alluring in their own way. But Victor… beauty isn’t something that he _has_ , it’s something that he _wields_ , as surely as Darian would his sword. He flirts outrageously, with anyone who’ll give him a second look (and with his smoky brown eyes and burnished brown skin, that’s practically everyone). His charm and wit are so sharp as to be deadly. Worst of all, he has the temerity to be _clever_ , showing an impressive knowledge of maritime warfare and agricultural patterns and the everyday ruling of the palace on the few occasions that Darian had been able to speak to him without swallowing his tongue.

Victor is lovely, and enchanting, and dangerous.

Good gods, this was a mistake.

As if sensing his distress, Cordelia shakes her head and pokes his shoulder.

“I really don’t see what the fuss is about, Your Majesty. They clearly want you to fuck them. So fuck them!”

Darius struggles not to strangle himself on a cough.

“It’s not that!” he hisses. “It’s the principle of the thing!”

“Right. I see. Principle,” says Cordelia, looking down at Darian’s traitorously, obviously hard cock.

“That,” he intones coldly, even while blood rushes to his cheeks, “is beside the point.” And he clasps his hands behind his back because he refuses to adjust himself in his trousers in front of his advisor.

Cordelia groans.

“Your Majesty, you can’t say things like ‘beside the point’ and expect me not to make a pun. In any case,” she continues hurriedly before he can growl at her, “this is the way I see it. You can’t keep avoiding them, which is why you agreed to meet with them. And you can’t keep tiptoeing around them, which is why you have to do something about… this!” She flaps a hand at the room at large.

She’s right, of course. He can’t have it said that he’s afraid to confront his own gods-forsaken harem. He needs to nip this little issue in the bud, the sooner the better.

Darian rubs his temples.

“I could just throw them out of the castle,” he mutters darkly.

“Yes, you could, but you won’t, because you’re not a tyrant, which is sort of why everyone was so happy to see you take over,” she says in snooty rebuttal. “Do keep up, Your Majesty.” She pats his shoulder. “Now, there’s practically a battalion of guards outside this door. You can call for them if you need to. I’m taking the afternoon off.”

Giving him a jaunty wave, Cordelia makes her escape, closing the door softly behind her.

Darian turns back, looking in the direction of the five gorgeous men. His pulse starts thudding, beating on the inside of his skin like a woodpecker, and he berates himself with a muffled oath. He practically grew up in a barracks, for the gods’ sakes. He’s been a part of the realm’s armed forces since he was fourteen years old. He’s shared baths and bathhouses and been naked with groups of handsome men on multiple occasions. Some of them had wanted to sleep with him. Some of them _had_. (Though, come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time he’d actually been intimate, a thought which makes him adjust his collar nervously.)

It’s fine. This is nothing. He can do this.

His boots click on the tiles as he walks forward. It’s a large room, and it takes him a few moments before he’s close enough to clear his throat for attention.

Victor, of course, is the first one to see him. He’s rising from the pool, little waterfalls racing down over his sleek body, when he cocks his head at Darian’s approach. Upon seeing him, Victor’s face erupts with a wide smile, delight shining out of every pore. His lids droop, and he clasps his hands together, as if he’s honestly _happy_ to see Darian.

He claps his hands, not breaking their eye contact.

“Gentlemen! Look who’s come to see us.”

Ayodele emits a little squeal, and Darian can hear the splashing as he extricates himself from the bath. Everyone else makes their way over more or less quietly, but Darian still feels his breath catch as they approach him from all sides, nude and wet, each one a specimen of manhood in his own right. They’re either smiling at him or just staring, gazing at him with glee or barefaced lust. Being the object of so much concentrated attention is like having a little earthquake just beneath his feet.

 _This is fine_ , he reminds himself forcefully.

They all greet him one by one, taking his proffered hand to kiss his ring. Somehow, each of them manages to miss the giant ruby, and kisses his knuckles instead, and he shivers when he feels Eulji’s full, silky beard, and Markus’ rough stubble, and Ishmael’s smooth skin. Each of them also insists on kneeling before him to make the gesture, even when he tries to wave them off, and subsequently, they’re all undoubtedly treated to a close view of his stiff cock.

Victor, the last to rise from his knees, gives him a look that says he saw all. Darian tries not to groan. It’s ridiculous that he should feel smaller in front of this man, when of all the concubines, he is most physically similar to Darian. Medium height, slim build, compact muscles. Darian’s are a bit more pronounced thanks to his military career, but everything about Victor seems to dwarf him nonetheless. 

Darian clears his throat.

“Gentlemen,” he says, as that seems as appropriate a way to begin as any.

“Your Majesty,” Victor says, beaming. “We can’t tell you how happy we are that you accepted our invitation.”

“It’s been a long time coming,” Eulji puts in, voice gruff. His manner is polite, but somehow that manages to sound like an accusation.

“Now, now,” says Darian, with a halting chuckle. “This isn’t the first time I’m meeting you all. We’ve gathered as a group before.”

“But not like _this!_ ” says Ayodele with a glittering grin, hands planted on his slim hips. Darian notices that he has a cluster of stars tattooed just south of his navel, done up in silver ink that stands out magnificently against his deep dark skin. Then he notices that all of his pubic hair has been shaved away, leaving the area smooth and clean, with just the suggestion of stubble. Then, of course, he notices his cock; small and thick and semi-hard, bobbing about when Ayodele sways.

Darian swallows, and looks up in time to get a huge wink from Ayodele.

“Any longer,” Ishmael is saying, “and we would have had to come ambush you in your quarters.” He tips Darian a wink as well, looking roguish and sly, and this whole _moment_ feels like an ambush. He says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“You all don’t know where my quarters are.”

Or at least, they _shouldn’t_. It’s not a secret; he has enough protection that it doesn’t have to be. But the palace is huge, he’d shared the information with only three select people, and he’d very purposefully chosen not to occupy the rooms from which he had evicted the previous Emperor. 

Victor laughs, sultry and low. 

“Well, we didn’t know at first, of course, but we found out. After all, it’s our duty, Your Majesty, to anticipate your needs. Whether you’re spending time with us or not.”

Darian is about to protest that he certainly doesn’t have any _needs_ when Markus interjects.

“It would behove us,” he rumbles in sonorous tones, “to remember that His Imperial Majesty has been busy with the particulars of consolidating his rule. We should be grateful that he’s able to spare the time for us now.”

Blinking up at him, Darian becomes very aware of just how far he has to crane his neck to meet Markus’ deep blue eyes, now that he’s standing this close. Overwhelming kindness radiates from those eyes, and Darian can’t look at them for too long. 

“I… yes. Busy. Yes.”

“So!” Victor claps his hands together, looking around at their little semi-circle. “How are we going to spend our well-earned time together? Some games, perhaps?”

“I could play us some music,” suggests Ishmael. The sitar is still strung around his neck, and he plays a few chords. “We could dance.”

“Oooh, oooh! Bathhouse play! We could put on a bathhouse play!” Ayodele practically bounces on his feet as he suggests it.

Eulji grunts with approval. “Haven’t done one of those in a while.”

Darian wrinkles his nose. “A play? In the bathhouse? I don’t see the need…”

“Aww, it’ll be fun!” Ayodele puts on a pleading look, his bottom lip stuck out in a fetching pout. “Emperor Caius always let us put on plays for him in the bathhouse.”

Darian cocks a brow. “I didn't agree with a lot of the things that your Emperor allowed. Hence the overthrowing.”

“Ah, well.” Victor waves a hand airily. “We won’t let a little thing like that stand between us, will we?”

They’re all looking at him expectantly. He hadn’t actually considered what they would do when he arrived (other than, well… and that’s _not_ an option) and once it isn’t very long, he supposes that a play might be an interesting way to pass the time. He wouldn’t call himself a patron of the arts, but he’s been known to enjoy the theatre every now and then.

“Very well,” he says.

“Wonderful!” Victor claps his hands in delight. “Have a seat, Emperor Darian, and we’ll get prepared for you. Gentlemen, who will be performing?”

“Me!” Ayodele’s hand shoots into the air, and it manages to be charismatic even in a man who’s been a quarter century on this earth.

“I’m up for it,” Eulji puts in more sedately. 

Expectantly, Darian waits for more of them to speak up, but no one else does. Ayodele and Eulji wander off. A two-man play? It’ll be interesting, at least.

He looks around. The bathhouse is populated with steaming pools of water, shelving that houses soaps and cloths and towels and other washing implements, a few flat benches near the walls, and not much else.

“Ah… where should I sit?”

“Oh…” Victor taps his lip. “Markus?”

The big man lopes off in the direction of the stairs. Darian’s eyes stay glued to his ass, which looks like it was sculpted by the gods in their last, desperate bid for perfection. On Markus’ way back, Darian is so distracted by the view from the front that it takes him a while to realise that Markus is holding a chair. A sturdy chair with thick armrests that looks far too heavy to be carried. Markus sets it down with ease.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and gestures for Darian to sit. He does.

Victor immediately sinks to his feet before him. The air in Darian’s throat fights with itself, not knowing whether to go up or down. There are no words for how appealing Victor looks down there, with his dark, lidded eyes, cheeky smile, kissable lips. Darian wants to curse. This whole situation suddenly feels like it’s been tilted sideways.

“Those boots look tight, Emperor Darian,” Victor says huskily. “Would you like a foot-rub while you watch?”

Darian casts his eyes about the room in something that feels perilously close to panic but he knows is just mounting arousal, as if one of the other occupants can or will help him. Ishmael has seated himself on the floor as well, just a few paces away, and is plucking out a simple, sultry tune on the sitar. Eulji and Ayodele have returned from wherever they went, and have positioned themselves directly in Darian’s line of vision. Cloudily, Darian notes that they’re still naked. He doesn’t see Markus, but can feel his large presence behind him, one hand on the backrest of the chair.

He looks back down at Victor.

“That really isn’t necessary,” he says stiffly.

“Now, now, Your Majesty,” Victor drawls. “I didn’t ask if you thought it was necessary. I asked if you _wanted_ one.” He bites his bottom lip, looking up at Darian through his lashes. There’s no way that the look _isn’t_ practiced, but Victor has made it perfect, because Darian feels a thrill go up his spine.

“Aren’t you supposed to anticipate my wants?”

Good gods, what is he _saying_? That isn’t at all what he’d wanted to say. But now, a part of him wants to repeat that sentence ad infinitum, because of the dazzling smile Victor blinds him with before starting to unlace his boots.

Darian looks up to find that Ayodele is dancing. Nothing fancy, just a lot of simple movements that make prodigious use of his hips and arms, and the melody that Ishmael plucks out. He should look silly, especially contrasted with Eulji standing there with arms akimbo looking at him, especially with his semi-erect penis bouncing about like a defunct metronome. But he’s graceful, and light, and lithe; desire made movement and flesh.

He makes a few circles around Eulji, teasing him, wiggling his ass at him. On the third rotation, Eulji flings an arm out, grabs the younger man by the arm, and reels him in. They’re kissing before Darian can blink. 

At once, the room feels charged, like they’re all conductors for a bolt of lightning that’s primed to streak through. Eulji and Ayodele seem very amicable together, but there’s also so much _passion_ between them. In their naked bodies pressed close together. In Ayodele’s eagerness, how he arches up like he wants to be consumed by the kiss. In Eulji’s thick fingers, trawling through Ayodele’s tight curls. In his other hand, travelling down his friend’s back, over his buttocks, slipping a finger in the crease…

Oh good grief.

Darian stares, mouth slightly agape. Eulji’s finger is rubbing slowly now, and Ayodele is making little panting noises. 

He twists his head, looks up at Markus, feeling faint.

“Are they…” He trails off, not bothering to finish his question, especially not when Markus nods briefly, giving confirmation. Of course. They’re going to fuck. Of course they’re going to fuck. How in all creation had he not divined that they intended to fuck?

Darian feels like he needs to sit down. Then he remembers he already is, and feels like he needs to sit down harder.

At his feet, Victor has gotten both his boots off, and is washing his feet with a damp cloth that he’d procured from somewhere. Darian stares at him accusingly.

“When you all said play, I thought you meant—” He flaps a hand in lieu of finishing. Victor looks over his shoulder at the other men, who are still kissing deeply, their cocks now fully hard between their bodies. He shrugs when he turns back, but Darian can see the smile playing on his lips as he sweeps the cloth over Darian’s arches.

“Oh, well. There are many definitions of the word,” is all he says. As if that solves the whole thing.

All this time, Darian’s cock has not even thought about going soft. Instinctually, he wants to undo his fly, shift his trousers down to ease the pressure on it, but the thought of doing that mortifies him beyond words. He is still, by orders of magnitude, the most dressed person in the room, but he’s holding on to his control and authority by a thread, and he feels like that thread is directly connected to his clothes. Take them off, and everything will unspool.

He can stop this, he knows. He can order them to cease. He can leave the room, right now.

The possibility of that actually happening becomes more opaque when Ayodele sinks to his knees, and takes Eulji’s straining cock into his mouth.

At least four separate groans echo through the room. Embarrassingly, Darian’s might be the loudest, even louder than Eulji’s. His eyes are glued to the scene in front of him. Eulji’s cock is just about as thick as that cucumber had been, maybe a bit shorter, and Ayodele swallows him with ease. Darian certainly doesn’t miss how Ayodele turns his head slightly to the side, makes sure that Darian is watching, and then bobs over the thick length repeatedly. He steadies himself with hands on Eulji’s rounded waist, comes up briefly for air and to lovingly suckle the tip, before sinking down to suck him again. The sounds coming from them are unbelievably arousing: hot muffled moans, deep appreciative grunts. Eulji has a hand at the top of Ayodele’s head, guiding him, and the other sifts through his chest hair to find a nipple and tug on it.

Darian is aware, vaguely, that Markus has started massaging his shoulders. His big hands are kneading away knots Darian hadn’t known existed. For the first few seconds, he does it over his shirt, and then, as if following a natural progression, he slips his hands beneath the fabric to continue applying pressure. Victor, by now, is finished bathing Darian’s feet, and has moved on to kneading them. The two sensations, behind him and below him, help to take his mind off of his cock, but they also make him more aware of his own body in its entirety, how aroused he is by this. He can’t remember the last time he felt this stirred.

Grasping at straws, he blurts out, “If this was a play, there’d be some kind of story.”

Victor chuckles.

“But Your Majesty, there _is_ a story. They are two friends who love each other and enjoy each other’s bodies very much, and they want you to enjoy it too.”

“Is this what you did for Emperor Caius?”

“Yes. Though not as much over the last year or so.” He presses his thumbs hard against Darian’s instep. “It’s nice to have a captive audience again.”

Eulji has lowered Ayodele to the floor, with a thick towel to protect him from the cold tile. He lies forward on his shoulders , supporting himself on his knees, with his ass thrust back and into the air. The line of his body is nothing less than gorgeous. Eulji drips a generous amount of oil onto his fingers, and slides the first one into the willing body beneath him.

“Oh gods… yes,” Ayodele moans in bliss, pushing back with his hips. After a few thrusts, Eulji slips out and gives him two fingers. Sweat drips down the side of Darian’s face, and he clutches the armrests with fingers that he knows must have gone white. Eulji finds that tender little spot inside Ayodele; he can tell because Ayodele starts whimpering, making little gaspy noises, giving up whatever shreds of decorum he was holding on to, scrabbling at the towel, fucking himself on Eulji’s thick fingers.

“Yeah… give it to him,” Darian hears, at the same time he registers that there’s no longer any music playing; there hasn’t been for several minutes now. He turns to where Ishmael is sitting, and sees that the musician has finally discarded his sitar. That big, gorgeous cock of his is firmly in hand; he stares fixedly at his friends as he strokes it, long and slow, pausing near the tip to tighten, squeeze, and push through. When he notices he’s being observed, he gives Darian a smile that’s so open and honest and blissful that he’s surprised into returning a brief one.

The buttons to his shirt are now open. Darian isn’t sure how that happened, but he’s sure that those fingers circling and rubbing his nipples belong to Markus, and he’s certain that it feels so good he wants to cry out. Markus alternates between cupping his pectorals and squeezing them, and then returning his attention to Darian’s nipples. They’re hard and swollen, and Darian wants to choke on the pleasure of having them twisted and toyed with like this. The feeling is only compounded by the light touch of Victor’s hands. They’ve abandoned his feet, and are now resting, very lightly, on Darian’s thighs.

 _Good gods_ , he thinks when he meets those eyes of spellbinding brown. Where is his control now?

Eulji is on his knees, slicking up his cock. Holding it by the base, he teases it against Ayodele’s hole, sliding up and down, chuckling when Ayodele tries to push back impatiently. He does it a few more times, slipping the tip in and out, before he finally relents and sinks in, all the way to the root.

Ayodele makes tight fists in the towel, his face contorting almost beyond recognition with ecstasy. He looks like he’s close to tears, and when he opens his mouth to speak, he sounds it.

“Fuck… fuck… Eulji I’m going to come, Eulji I’m going to come,” he chants, eyes shut tight. Darian swallows, prick straining. To be so incoherent after only a few seconds… he must be so _sensitive_ …

Eulji runs his hands up and down his friend’s sides soothingly. 

“Oh, come now Ayo. You can last a little longer than that for His Majesty, can’t you? Come, show him how good you can be.”

Ayodele _mewls_ , but nods frantically into the towel. Eulji grabs him by the hips, tugs him back to get the best angle. He tries a few shallow thrusts, belly pressing into the small of Ayodele’s back, and likes the reaction he gets. Then, he starts fucking him.

It’s easily the most intimate thing Darian has ever witnessed, just for how close they are, how marvellously in sync. And then, they start looking at him. _Really_ looking at him. Ayodele with his cheek pressed against the floor, mouth hanging open; Eulji with an intense hunger burning in his eyes. They look at him as if he’s between them; as if Darian is fucking Ayodele and Eulji is fucking Darian, and they’re all moving together. Ayo is making little ‘uh, uh’ sounds every time Eulji thrusts into him, like he’s so helplessly excited. Their movement is rhythmic; the sounds they make are enthralling.

Watching closely, Darian can see Ayodele slide a hand beneath himself, and he thinks that he’s going to grab his own cock, neglected and dripping. Instead, he rubs at his nipple, pinching it wantonly, and Darian feels it as if his fingers are connected to Markus’, playing beneath his shirt.

Far too much blood rushes to his face, and Darian knows that this is the edge for him.

“Fuck…” he says pleadingly to the man at his feet, and it’s as if Victor was waiting for that signal, as if he _knew_ it was coming. He rises to his knees, undoes the placket of Darian’s trousers with a few movements, and slips Darian’s rigid cock between those lush lips. Two seconds of heavenly warmth and the suggestion of tongue is all it takes before Darian climaxes, lifting his hips off the chair, meeting the twin pleasure of Markus’ hands on his nipples and Victor’s mouth on his cock. Victor swallows, still sucking, wringing the ecstasy out of him, and his mind goes bright, and it feels like it will never end. Vaguely, peripherally, he can see and hear Ishmael’s orgasm, and then the cries and grunts as Ayodele and Eulji reach their crisis simultaneously.

Darian covers his face with his hands, breathing heavily.

A minute later, when he drags them away, there are five handsome faces peering at him. Darian can’t bear the scrutiny, so he concentrates on the one closest to him. Victor rests with his chin on Darian’s thigh, looking sated even though Darian can see that his cock is still hard in his loincloth. He radiates a queer kind of completion.

“Now then, Your Majesty,” he says with that purr of a voice. “Isn’t that exactly what you needed?”

*

Darian gets himself cleaned up with military speed, and dashes out of the bathhouse without saying goodbye. For the rest of the day, he throws himself into his work: meeting with the builders for the destroyed western ramparts, pondering over the grievances of the farmers, listening to reports from his generals. In every spare moment, he hears Victor’s voice in his head ( _“Isn’t that exactly what you needed?”_ ) and then has to work harder to drive it out. Nothing seems to work, and when Cordelia comes back from her self-appointed time off, he can’t bring himself to meet her laughing eyes.

He goes to bed late, and sleeps badly.

He dreams. Darian dreams of fucking Ayodele, of dark legs wrapped around his hips, delicious sounds escaping his mouth as Darian drives into his tightness. He dreams of being held down, immobile, while Eulji spanks his rear, pinches it, and finally fucks him into a mess of tears. He dreams of practising with Ayo until he can suck Ishmael’s cock like he desperately wants to, swallow around it and choke on it until Ishmael comes down his throat. He dreams of being pampered and caressed, Markus’ large hands roaming his body with utmost gentleness, divining what he needs before he says it.

Darian dreams of Victor; his smoky eyes and his sultry voice. He dreams of learning what he likes, what makes him ache, doing whatever it takes to make that pretty mouth twist with pleasure. He dreams of knowing him, of knowing _all_ of them.

When he wakes the next morning, clawing out of sleep groggily, his cock is hard enough to hammer iron. He rubs at his eyes, and then notices that there are four figures standing at the foot of his bed in a loose semicircle. 

Darian rubs his eyes again. There are actually five men there. Ayodele has slung himself across Markus’ back, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, nibbling the blond’s ear and grinning coquettishly. Markus has one hand behind him supporting Ayo, and the other holds up a small breakfast tray. There’s a simple leather strap in Eulji’s hand; he bats it casually across his palm, just once. Ishmael is carrying a flute for a change, and it’s already been raised to his soft lips.

Victor is in the centre, smiling fondly.

 _It’s our duty to anticipate your needs._ Darian’s heart pounds in his chest, and in this moment, he’s so pleased to see his harem, he can’t think of anything else. If he hadn’t capitulated hours ago, he would capitulate in this very instant, and looking at all their handsome faces, he can tell he’s the last person to have this revelation.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Victor says, sweet and low. He glances down at Darian’s erection, still urgently tenting the sheet. “May we help you with that?”


End file.
